Protocol
by Kyra Neko-Rei
Summary: The morning after Starscream's promotion: he and Megatron continue where they left off, but Optimus needs Megatron to deal with some urgent paperwork, resulting in a comedy of errors that shakes the Government Center to its foundations. Sparksex, BDSM.
1. Chapter 1

Title: "Protocol"

Author: Kyra Neko-Rei.

Rating: NC-17.

Pairings: Megatron/Starscream, tiny mentions of Megatron/Optimus Prime.

Setting: Cybertron, pre-war.

Warnings: Sparksex, BDSM.

Disclaimer: They ain't mine.

Summary: Megatron chooses his new Air Commander, and has some fun with him besides.

The Lord High Protector set the datapad on his immaculate and massive desk; stretched lazily, enjoying the feeling of eased tension in his shoulder hydraulics; picked up the datapad again. Service records of every wing commander in his air fleet stared up at him. On the wall across from him, two faces, the symbols of his office and of Prime's, stared across at him in shadow---official mourning, for the passing of Air Commander Skydance, heroically dead, winning a mismatched battle and saving every member in her squadron in the process. A contemporary of himself and his brother, a classmate at the academy, a friend, a fellow warrior who understood the supreme importance of keeping Cybertron safe, just as Megatron did.

A hard act to follow.

Megatron flipped through screen after screen, studying service records, political viewpoints, off-duty amusements, and in-air performance of every flyer who held the rank of Commander, plus a few Lieutenants who stood out amongst their peers. It would set not a few afterburners aflare were he to go against protocol and promote a lieutenant all the way to Air Commander above the Wing Commanders who were directly subordinate to the position, but the office was an important one that didn't change officers often---his choice would hold the post for a small eternity, and that meant he needed the best flyer, the best strategist, the best leader, to have the position, regardless of whether that best person had had time to advance properly when the previous Air Commander had happened to die.

Case in point: a recently-minted lieutenant named Starscream, whose profile he'd just happened upon. Exemplary service record, exemplary academy record before that. Not perfect, but . . . charged---he did everything well, but he did a lot of things his own way, countermanding orders a few times and arguing strategy with his superiors more than a few times. Not surprisingly, was third-in-command in his current squadron---a good place for such a being. Second-in-commands were there to execute their superiors' orders, to second them; third-in-commands were there to play devil's advocate, to point out flaws in their commanders' plans, to argue when needed. Sort of like his own position in comparison with the Prime---although there he was second-in-command, as the Prime had no need of a second to back him up, such was his authority and power, but rather a second to keep him in check, and to keep in check in turn. Megatron thought that this was the better way. Certainly his brother needed no one to mindlessly back him up, and neither did he himself, really.

But now he was choosing an Air Commander, one of his direct seconds---and so the question had to be asked, which did he want for ihis/i direct subordinate, the first such position that was open for him to choose? His predecessor had chosen Skydance, and all of the other living High Commanders. Had chosen Megatron. Had even, slag him, chosen Megatron's replacement in the High Command when he chose Megatron to succeed him. Now, finally, was Megatron's turn to choose, to promote someone to immediately below him. But what did he want? He could have an agreeable, obedient subordinate---or he could have an Air Commander---a leader, not a follower, right under him---and over his entire air force.

No question, really.

He scanned Starscream's record one more time. Politically sound---well in agreement with Megatron on most issues. That was good; military high command was no place for a pacifist or an idealist; such beings were for the Prime's line of command. Excellent strategy . . . records set for flying scores at the academy . . . and good, sound reasoning every time he disagreed with his commanders.

Megatron activated his communications link and sent out a request for Lieutenant Starscream to report to him at his earliest convenience.

-------------------------------------------

"Earliest convenience" turned out to be less than a cycle later---the mech must've been in the building already. "Report" was equally impressive---perfectly in adherence with protocol, Starscream had entered, saluted, spoken the words "Lieutenant Starscream reporting as ordered, sir," and come fluidly to attention, all graceful, perfect military precision without being excessively rigid . . . lilting voice pronouncing the words crisply and with perfect inflection . . . and not the slightest trace of nervousness or fear. Nor arrogance either . . . no, cancel that, there was something like arrogance there. Just below the surface, the subtle pride of someone who's doing everything perfectly and knows it, and knows everyone else knows it too. And there is . . . not quite a complete lack of nervousness, either. That too is just below the surface, the barely-perceptible trembling of someone who is in the same room with . . . hmmm . . . the Lord High Protector? For some people, that's enough; for others, no. Megatron? Perhaps---same thing. Megatron fixed piercing optics on the lieutenant, and there it is again, the slightest of tremors . . . the rapt, tense attention of someone who is in the room with an object of devotion.

Megatron coolly said, "At ease," more to watch him move again than out of any desire to put the mech at ease; he liked this barely-there edginess. Starscream moved fluidly into the wider stance of parade rest and smoothly clasped his hands behind his back. Not for the first time, Megatron felt a tiny thrill at being able to direct the movements of another mech, then took it a step further to contemplate the fiction that Starscream's arms were held behind him by shackles. The idea was very pleasing, and it was with regret that he pushed it aside in order to focus on business.

------------------------------

Starscream was indeed to become his new Air Commander, Megatron decided in rather short order. He'd discussed certain bits of military intelligence with the lieutenant, getting a feel for what he'd do with the job; he'd had the mech justify certain command decisions he'd made---not hard, since Megatron agreed with all of them---and viewed several tapes of Starscream flying; he'd asked for the flights Starscream considered to be his best and his worst, and they'd discussed why each had gained that description, and why they'd happened that way.

Now came the interesting part.

"Congratulations, Starscream," he said, getting straight to the point. "You're my new Air Commander." He felt a bit of gloating pleasure as the other's optics widened, and waited to see what Starscream would do next.

Protocol now offered Starscream several choices for his acceptance of the office. He could salute, he could bow from the neck or from the waist, or he could drop down to one knee---Megatron had added that option himself back when he was just one of the High Command, with his optics on the potential for becoming Lord High Protector, arguing that the holder of that exalted office ought to be entitled to a slightly greater display of respect than lesser officers. Prime was entitled to it as well; Optimus, however, had discouraged its use towards himself, the egalitarian dolt. Megatron preferred it, and this was common knowledge. Starscream didn't disappoint.

Still fluidly, the smaller mech sank to one knee, inclining his head. Megatron purred inaudibly at the sight, and wondered if he could talk Optimus into some fun later on.

No . . . apparently, he _wasn't_ purring inaudibly. Starscream's head snapped up within seconds of the low rumble, optics brightening. So the flyer could hear that. Hmmm . . . that was interesting. More interesting, however, was that Starscream had broken protocol. Megatron smiled, an expression that Optimus jokingly referred to as his "evil delighted look."

Starscream _shivered_.

Megatron's "evil delighted look" found a whole new level of evil and delighted. Maybe he wouldn't need to pester Optimus after all. He fixed his new immediate subordinate with an arch look, mostly in the optics as his mouthpieces were very firmly smiling, and reveled in the moment as Starscream bowed his head. "Apologies, my lord."

"Starscream."

"Sir."

"Parade rest."

Starscream obediently stood and assumed the requested position. Megatron stepped closer, towering head and shoulders over him, and took the smaller mech's chin in one clawed hand.

"You're the Air Commander now, Starscream," he said softly, deceptively gentle. "Everyone will be looking to you for an example, mechs who were your superior officers yesterday, worthless lieutenants like you were five minutes ago, soldiers, airmechs, cadets . . . Your adherence to protocol must be flawless." Starscream's optics blazed slightly at the insult to his movements, which had been perfect until Megatron had gone and started purring.

Megatron grinned. "Ahhh, yes . . . you have fire." Starscream's optics widened fractionally, and then surprised him, pleasantly, by restoring the glare.

"Yes, sir, I have. It is well-documented in my service record, I'm sure. I don't mean to change, Megatron. It's what I do." Steady voice, but . . . was that just the _slightest_ hint of nervousness? Yes . . . and _nerve_. The other mech was grasping the fact that he was the Air Commander . . . and that the commander he'd be facing off with was the Lord High Protector, Lord Megatron. Elated at both . . . and nervous at both . . . and playing with fire, and loving it. Megatron smiled. Oh, yes, he'd chosen well.

"Indeed . . . that is why I chose you. I want no mindless seconds . . . the second acts as counterpoint to the leader, critiquing his plans, keeping him from getting complacent, just short of challenging him . . . and yet loyally serving the same goals . . . such is a stable system. So it is with the Prime and myself; so it is with myself and you, the first of my High Command."

Starscream nodded. "I'm the first one you've chosen."

"Yes . . ." The Lord High Protector took another moment to savor the occasion, then returned to what passed for business. "That being said . . . your adherence to protocol, while admirable, is _slightly_ less than perfect. We shall work on that, you and I, before you publicly take your command."

Starscream's optics widened again, and he burst out, "You?"

"Who better? I _am_ your commanding officer. Your only commanding officer, now." Megatron let a slight note of promise and desire creep into his voice, and gleefully watched Starscream's barely-perceptible response. Felt the tremors through his fingers, still resting against the Air Commander's jaw. Starscream's ventilators hitched, the edges of his mouth curving upward to form a smile.

"I wonder, Starscream, what's got you so pleased? Is it the power you hold over every other flyer on Cybertron? Or is it the power that I have, now directly, over you?"

He reached out with his other hand and gripped Starscream's codpiece. Hard. Starscream crumpled, shuddering and collapsing inward, letting out an electronic whimper that set every sensor in Megatron's body humming like a high-tension power line. He pulled at it, yanking the other mech closer, and Starscream crashed into him, sending them both staggering. Without letting go, Megatron pulled Starscream around him and propelled him back towards the wall, pinning him with his own greater bulk. The Air Commander made incoherent happy noises and ground fiercely against Megatron; the Lord High Protector grabbed a set of wires in Starscream's shoulder, and squeezed, pulling gently; Starscream groaned. Megatron smiled.

"I asked you a question, Air Commander."

"B--- Both!" Starscream barely got the word out, incoherent with Megatron's claws scraping over hydraulics and joints.

Megatron paused, one hand pressed lightly against a wing. "Both, what, Starscream?"

"Both . . . my Lord Commander." Flawless, this mech was, Megatron thought. At least, he certainly had a talent for the sort of flattery that Megatron, to be honest with himself, really, really liked. Hence the change in protocol to allow for genuflecting to the Prime and the Lord Protector. He liked being bowed to. He liked being deferred to. He liked being called _my Lord Commander_. He started purring again. Starscream started shivering again---or shivering more, rather, because it wasn't like he'd stopped.

Megatron liked Starscream shivering. He liked being the cause of it. And he certainly liked what he was planning to do next.

He let go of Starscream and stepped back, quelling both protest and attempts to bridge the gap with an upraised hand. "Protocol lessons, Starscream. You will do what I tell you to do, and do it perfectly. If you fail, you will attempt again until you complete it properly. Stand to attention."

He had to give Starscream credit: he had a fast processor even when distracted. Starscream shifted into ramrod-straight attention even as his face was displaying a decidedly stunned expression. In fact . . .

"No. Do it again, without the stupid look on your face." Starscream gave him a dirty look before complying, going completely at ease, schooling his expression into something acceptable, and returning to attention, perfectly. Megatron nodded. "Parade rest."

---------------------------------

This was, Megatron decided sometime later, quite the effective form of stress relief. Directing another mech---a member of the High Command, at that---through every military movement in the book was _fun_. Doing it while said mech was somewhat aroused---and thus more prone to mistakes---was even better. And punishing the mistakes with rough gropes and the occasional slap to something sensitive, thus increasing the arousal that caused the mistakes and generating a sort of feedback loop, was hands down the best way to spend an afternoon that Megatron had ever come up with.

Starscream was trembling head to foot at the moment, standing at attention and probably _aching_. Megatron had leniently allowed him free reign to vocalize however he wished, and the array of whimpers, moans, and thank-you's the new Air Commander had produced while being stroked and prodded were ringing sweetly in his auditory sensors. Megatron himself was fairly well charged just now, from the delightful vocalizations his touches produced, the feeling of the other mech trembling beneath his fingers, and continued delight at watching Starscream go through the movements he directed, which he still did as gracefully as anything the Lord High Protector had seen in his long lifetime.

Megatron circled the Air Commander, predatory, watching for the slightest flicker of a mistake. There were none; he continued around in front of Starscream, made to circle around behind him again, and brought the flat of his palm across to slap Starscream's codpiece. Starscream squawked and both doubled over and arched into Megatron's palm, with the result that he managed to stay mostly upright; Megatron slapped him again. And again, three times in quick succession. The Air Commander whimpered, pleading incoherently with garbled noises that might or might not have been words. Megatron gripped his chin again, rubbed fingers up and down his jaw, and said, "Kneel to me."

Starscream sank down to both knees---completely ignoring protocol---and touched his forehead to the floor. "My Lord Commander." Fervency and lust in every syllable.

Megatron, looking down at his kneeling subordinate with delight, decided that such a break in protocol was eminently forgivable. Praiseworthy even.

Well, that _was_ what he'd chosen Starscream to do.

"Up." Not waiting for the command to be followed, he reached out, grabbed a wing and hauled Starscream to his feet. The rest of Starscream followed the wing with no resistance and nothing resembling silence---apparently the wings were sensitive, and the Lord High Protector filed that knowledge away where it could be explored more thoroughly later. Megatron gripped Starscream's codpiece again, fingers slipping beneath it to pluck at the wiring behind it, and with his other hand yanked the Air Commander's chestplate open. It gave very easily, and Megatron stroked the other mech's spark casing.

Starscream lived up to his name at a volume that had Megatron's audio sensors shutting down to protect themselves. He reversed the safety measure without a second thought, wanting to hear more of it. Meanwhile, he found himself letting loose a cry of his own as Starscream's delicate fingers dug beneath his own chestplate, finding wires and circuit boards and his own spark casing. The intense tingles, coupled with the charge from dominating Starscream, brought him quickly to the verge of overload, and he wondered how badly Starscream was aching for it, having been played with somewhat longer and harder and more.

No matter. Starscream was going to get it in short order, now, immediately almost---Megatron shoved his subordinate against his desk so he sat down against it, then pushed him down onto his back, climbing on top and pinning him by resting elbows on his wings. Hips followed suit, resting on hips, and with Starscream bringing new meaning to the words _loud_ and _incoherent_, Megatron brought his spark down hard against Starscream's.

It felt as if he'd connected sparks with the Allspark itself. The pleasure was excruciating, burning through his systems like a star going nova, and he was screaming, Lord Protector or no, screaming at the top of his vocalizer with no regard for dignity or anything else, and below him Starscream was screeching just as loudly and everything was just on fire with the pleasure that was consuming him burning him alive and it was the most glorious thing in the universe.

-------------------------------------

Coming back online, he found himself on the floor, his new Air Commander on top of him. He couldn't remember falling off the desk . . . or onto his chair, which he must have done, seeing as it had been more or less flattened. Pleasant shocks of residual energy flickered through his systems as he lazily sat up.

Sunlight streaked through the window, and he wondered vaguely whether the soundproofing had withstood that session. He was going to have to get it upgraded if he was going to keep Starscream around . . . and he sure as the Pit was going to do that. Speaking of Starscream . . .

He stood up just as the Air Commander came out of recharge, reached a hand down to pull him up, companionably, and smiled, lingering close. Starscream met his optics, satiated and lazy and pleased with both his commander and himself. Not bothering to keep the pleased rumble out of his voice, Megatron said, "I shall announce your promotion tonight, and a suitable celebration will be put together by tomorrow. Report to me here at the beginning of the morning duty shift."

Starscream nodded acknowledgment and saluted and said, "Yes, sir!" with the faintest hint of a smile.

Megatron added, "And Starscream . . . bring a shockstick with you."

Starscream's face split into a definitely protocol-shattering grin.


	2. Chapter 2

The look on Starscream's face when he entered Megatron's office, the Lord Protector mused, ought to be illegal.

Anticipation, happiness, pride, wariness, lust, mischief, and just the slightest touch of fear all expressed themselves clearly on the Air Commander's delicate, perfectly crafted features, and the end result was stunning. Megatron had entered recharge remembering Starscream whimpering and arching into his digging claws, and come online remembering Starscream writhing beneath him as he pinned the Seeker down by resting his weight on his wings; he had come to his office and found a new chair replacing the one he'd accidentally landed on and that brought to mind the state of mind he'd been in when he'd smashed it, specifically so over-pleasured that he hadn't noticed the chair until afterwards. And now Starscream was here, standing to his usual flawless attention and looking at Megatron with ithat/i expression, and Megatron was lucky he didn't have anything that desperately needed to get done right now because there was no way in the Pit he'd manage to concentrate on anything besides Starscream.

Cancel that---he_ did_ have something that desperately needed doing right now. Starscream.

The Lord High Protector, whatever else anyone might say of him, was no procrastinator.

"Come here," he said rather curtly, rounding the desk to meet the other mech halfway. Starscream did as ordered, twisting lithely out of ramrod-straight attention to smoothly move towards Megatron; Megatron reached out with no warning and yanked the Air Commander's chestplates apart, pulled him closer, and ground their sparks together with all the strength he had.

Starscream keened at the top of his vocalizer, shuddering, wrapping his arms tightly around his commanding officer, and collapsed against Megatron, leaving the stronger mech to hold them both up while he scraped his smooth burnished faceplates against the Lord Protector's sharper ones.

Overload quickly overtook them both; neither of them noticed when they hit the floor.

------------------------------

In the office directly below the Lord High Protector's, three academy students were interrupted from glaring death rays at each other by a shuddering crash from above.

The smallest of the assembled mechs looked up dispassionately, and then back down, the tiniest hint of amusement visible if one looked hard. His brother, slightly larger, looked up and grinned wickedly. The third student, antagonistically facing his smaller classmates, shifted his optics toward the ceiling with very little change in expression.

The instructor behind the desk didn't bother to look---he'd heard significantly more last night, and the only interest he had in the situation was the possibility that the ceiling would collapse. He hoped it would; if the Lord High Protector and his lover crashed through the floor, he could go off to the shooting range and blow things up while the place was repaired. He debated weakening the ceiling with a well-placed laser bolt or three to up the odds of that happening.

Until then, however, he had students to discipline. He slammed both cannon-laden arms down onto his desk to regain their attention, and was faced in a nanosecond with a slightly apologetic but otherwise expressionless look from the smallest student, a vastly amused smirk from his partner in crime, and a glare of utmost loathing from their larger adversary. Business as usual.

He managed to get about a third of the way through his mostly hypocritical lecture about how fighting was wrong when he was interrupted, loudly this time, by more caterwauling from above, at a volume which actually _surpassed_ last night's concert from the same source. He wondered who the Lord High Protector was interfacing with, and whether he could drop a hint that they keep it down without getting his head removed from his shoulders. Blast it, Prowl was the only student he'd had in a vorn who didn't roll his optics or smirk upon hearing lectures against fighting from the most cannon-happy 'bot on Cybertron, and Prowl didn't get into trouble that often; why'd Megatron have to spoil it today?

He continued over the racket, noticing another two sentences in that he'd lost the attention of his other students, the larger of whom had returned to giving the ceiling the same hateful glare that he gave everything else. Barricade, meanwhile, was technically looking at him but Ironhide was fairly sure that most of his attention was up a floor. The warrior-in-training wasn't looking amused at the concept of Ironhide lecturing against fighting, so either he was paying more attention to Megatron's highly-audible sex life than he was to what Ironhide was saying or he was simply tuning Ironhide out. Knowing Barricade, however, it was undoubtedly the former.

A scream that was most certainly _not_ the Lord High Protector echoed from above; Prowl winced, Barricade _shivered_, and Ironhide, frustrated, dropped his lecture in mid-sentence to inform Prowl and Barricade they were dismissed, then sat down and went back to his paperwork, leaving the oblivious Bonecrusher still scowling up at the ceiling wishing its painful demise. The weapons instructor turned part-time military advisor bit back a laugh at the prospect of night falling and himself going home before Bonecrusher noticed he could go. It would serve the hateful little slagger right.

-------------------------------

Megatron woke Starscream up with the shockstick, applying it none-too-gently to the Seeker's right wing. Starscream shot out of recharge with a speed rivaling that of sound and a sound that was decidedly gratifying to the Lord Protector---but Megatron's amused delight at that was suddenly interrupted, in the manner that a trickle of water might be interrupted by a flash flood, at what he'd missed noticing when he'd gotten the idea.

Starscream, lying flat on his back, was unable to move without pressing himself further into the shockstick.. He was held prisoner by his own wing, which was held fast to the floor of Megatron's office by the shockstick, whose intense charges Starscream was also unable to escape; any attempt to move would force Starscream's wing harder against the shockstick and increase the powerful sensations, and that in turn would make it harder if not impossible for Starscream to make his body cooperate enough to get free---and meanwhile the intense mix of pain and pleasure the shockstick produced would be even more powerful---a fitting self-performing punishment (reward?) for trying to get away.

The implication surged through Megatron's processors like he'd jammed the shockstick into his own CPU, and his charge level skyrocketed as though he'd pressed the thing into his spark. He settled for pressing it harder against Starscream, arcing it across the wing, keeping the Seeker pinned firmly to the floor. The delightful irony of the Air Commander being kept on the ground by his wings caused another spike in Megatron's charge level that put him on the verge of overload. Again. Already.

Primus, this was fun.

Speaking of imminent overload, Starscream was probably almost there as well, having likely come to the same realization about his position and the consequences of trying to escape, and, knowing Starscream, gotten off on it.

Megatron twisted the shockstick, caressing the wing almost gently while dialing up the intensity slightly, and realized that Starscream was begging, pleading, screaming, and had been for some time now. Probably to be let free of the shockstick's influence, although none of the noises he produced resembled coherent speech enough for Megatron to be quite certain.

The Lord Protector calmly shifted the shockstick to the other wing; Starscream shot up the instant it came off the first wing and retreated back to a prone position just as fast when it contacted the other. Megatron scanned his subordinate's systems, watching the charges build up towards overload . . . almost . . . almost . .

Megatron removed the shockstick just as Starscream's charge level was about to hit critical.

The frustration, need, and fury present in the garbled electronic scream the Seeker emitted were music to Megatron's audios, and he stepped back and purred, reveling in his own near-overload as much as Starscream was frustrated over his. He sat back lazily in his chair, appreciating the pleasing spectacle of his beautiful Seeker writhing on the floor, and offlined his optics for a second, relishing the sound of him.

Mistake.

There was a split-second whine of jet engines; something crashed into him and he found himself flat on his back, the chair crushed under him and the Air Commander on top of him, yanking his chestplates open; the realization that he was suddenly helpless for Starscream to toy with now flashed through his consciousness, and that thought at his current arousal level just barely tipped him over the edge into overload; a nanosecond later he felt Starscream's spark against his own and the universe descended into a mad rush of searing pleasure all the faster and all the harder.

He didn't notice the silence when his audios offlined in self-defense, or feel the nearest leg of his desk crumple when he flailed and hit it; above him Starscream shuddered and he certainly felt both that and the sudden increase in weight that pressed their sparks even harder together. Then the pleasure took both of them offline with their sparks still touching and he slid into blackness and felt nothing, Starscream above him doing the same.

Acting to prevent significant damage, both of their systems brought failsafes into play---a discharge circuit engaged in each massive body and acted as an escape valve for the energy of their sparks; both blue embers faded into inert dormancy, powering down and leaving Megatron and Starscream not in recharge but in stasis lock, the wreckage of Megatron's desk, its contents, and its morning clutter of work all resting on top of them, the shockstick, still activated, crackling slightly next to them on the floor.

-----------------------------------

The other leader of Cybertron pressed the doorchime of his brother's office for the fifth time, frowning as he still received no answer. The security scanners and Megatron's support staff both stated plain as day that the Lord High Protector was in his office, but he wasn't answering his internal comm and he wasn't answering his computer and he wasn't answering his door, either. Meanwhile, the paperwork Optimus carried was high priority to the last datadisk and required the Lord High Protector's attention immediately. Finally deciding that he'd waited politely as long as he justifiably could, Prime entered Iacon City's primary override code into the keypad.


	3. Chapter 3

_The other leader of Cybertron pressed the doorchime of his brother's office for the fifth time, frowning as he still received no answer. The security scanners and Megatron's support staff both stated plain as day that the Lord High Protector was in his office, but he wasn't answering his internal comm and he wasn't answering his computer and he wasn't answering his door, either. Meanwhile, the paperwork Optimus carried was high priority to the last datadisk and required the Lord High Protector's attention immediately. Finally deciding that he'd waited politely as long as he justifiably could, Prime entered Iacon City's primary override code into the keypad._

It didn't work.

_That_ was illegal. Prime, Megatron, and Elita-One, Iacon City's Chief of Security, all had access to that code, and it was supposed to override every lock in the city. Optimus frowned, and tried Cybertron's primary override code, which only he and Megatron had and which should be able to open every lock on the _planet_.

Cybertron's Prime let out a rare, and inventive, vulgarity as it quickly became clear that Cybertron's primary override code would open every door on Cybertron _except_ the one Optimus needed to open.

Behind him, Megatron's secretary and the passing Infantry Commander shared a shocked look. Megatron was one thing, but when Cybertron's sedate and sensible Prime was moved to cursing, something was up.

Optimus glared at the door and retyped the code, deciding he must have made an error. He entered it a third time before he was satisfied he'd done it correctly, and growled, "Suck slag, brother," in the direction of the errant Lord High Protector. Then he transformed his right arm into a plasma cannon and shot the door.

It felt surprisingly good. Unfortunately, it was also spectacularly ineffective. Optimus kept shooting anyway.

"That's not going to work," the Infantry Commander said from behind him, dry amusement in his tone. Optimus paused for a second, looked back at the older mech, and said, "But if he opens the door while I'm shooting, I can say it was an accident when I shoot _him_," only half in jest. Not only were the files he had time-sensitive, but he had been working on them for most of the night. Running on half a recharge cycle and then having his brother's stubbornness threaten the results of several weeks of negotiations without even looking at how important they were had Prime wanting to jump on his brother and beat the slag out of him with a fervency he hadn't felt since they were sparklings.

Optimus needed either a really good hacker, or some better firepower. He considered his options, and smiled for the first time in two solar cycles. Even if nothing else could be bothered to go right this morning, better firepower was just a floor below him. He left the door radiating with excess heat behind him, and exited the Lord High Protector's antechamber in search of Ironhide.

* * *

He found Ironhide in his office, which the academy instructor and military advisor was currently sharing with a hulking younger mech who was at the moment glaring heatedly at the ceiling. Ironhide looked up and put a finger to his mouthpieces, got up silently, and rounded his desk to herd Optimus back out the doorway. Shutting the door, the instructor answered his Prime's confused look with "He wanted to not pay attention when I was lecturing, so I decided to let him."

Optimus couldn't help smiling, at that. He'd been a student of Ironhide's in his first year as an instructor's assistant, and never failed to appreciate the mech's sense of irony. They were old friends, a fact that made it much easier to state the decidedly odd request he had. "Ironhide, can you shoot out the door to the Lord High Protector's office?"

Ironhide blinked at that. He couldn't fathom why the Prime would want to sneak in on his brother during an interface session (well, he could, but he'd never figured Optimus Prime to be quite that kinky, let alone that kinky and open about it), and was about to ask that very question when a new thought occurred to him and he clamped his mouthpieces shut on the first word, switching the question hastily to "What do you want to do that for?"

Prime held up the datadisks. "This needs his going-over and approval, and it needs it several hours ago, to be honest. I know he's in his office but I can't make contact with him and it is imperative that he deal with this immediately!"

Ironhide stifled a grin as his intuition turned out to be correct. Optimus had no idea what his brother was doing, and as long as he and whomever it was were being quiet, there was every likelihood that he could get the Prime to walk right in on the Lord Protector getting intimate with . . . somebody, hopefully somebody else high-ranking and purportedly dignified. That was an even better prospect than getting to the weapons range due to Megatron-inflicted office damage. Prime's reaction would be priceless, and Ironhide made sure his image-capture device was close to hand in a subspace pocket before leading Prime towards the lift without a further second to spare. "We'll need to drop by Security and grab a bigger gun," he explained. "The Lord High Protector's office is too well-shielded for what I've got to go through it."

Optimus nodded, scowling in a most un-Optimus-like manner. "I noticed."

Ironhide stopped and stared. He'd missed Optimus Prime _shooting_ the door to Lord Megatron's office?! _Slag it_! He hoped someone else had seen it and could describe it to him.

He pressed the lift button and stepped aside for Optimus to enter, following him in and selecting security's floor from the array of destination buttons. The lift dropped and Ironhide directed an amused smirk at the back of the unsuspecting mech beside him, happily contemplating the prospect of a perfect day. Repression was fun to undo.

* * *

Bonecrusher glared at the ceiling, hating it. The metal was an ugly half-matte, half-shiny affair that looked awful, and was probably a weak alloy besides. He wished it would collapse; that would be nice. It would probably splinter and come crashing down around him with a scream of twisting metal, and the Lord High Protector would come crashing down with it. That would be wonderful. Megatron was more than twice Bonecrusher's size and Bonecrusher hated that, even more than he usually hated it when others were bigger than he was. Of course, Megatron was a lot bigger than pretty much everyone. It wasn't fair.

And Megatron was interfacing with someone up there. Bonecrusher hated that too. Interfacing was such a disgusting, _sappy_ thing that mechs did to show love and affection and share pleasure; it was revolting. Besides, he wasn't getting any.

He wasn't sure what he hated more, though. Listening to Megatron interface---which, granted, he didn't sound like he was doing anymore---or listening to Ironhide lecture him . . . which, come to think of it, _he_ didn't sound like he was doing anymore, either.

Bonecrusher hated silence.

He turned to glare at Ironhide only to lay optics upon an empty chair.

Bonecrusher spun around; he hated being snuck up on; but Ironhide wasn't behind him either. In fact, he wasn't in the room at all. He'd just walked out and _left_ Bonecrusher staring at the ceiling and staying docilely in his office when there was no reason for him to have to do so!

Bonecrusher _really_ hated being made a fool of.

He swept his furious gaze around the office, glaring burning hateful death at every datadisk and bookfile and weapon schematic visible in the room. Then he smiled, no less hateful, reached out, picked up a datadisk, and crushed it.

He didn't hate doing _that_.

He eyed Ironhide's computer and reached for it.

* * *

As he and Prime stepped out of the lift, Ironhide's amused speculation was interrupted by a ping from his internal comm system. He answered it dubiously, and was pleasantly surprised when Infantry Commander Firestrike's voice asked him, "Guess what Optimus Prime just did?"

Suddenly in an even better mood than before, Ironhide answered, "He shot the door to the Lord Protector's office."

"Not only that, he said 'Slag-sucking Primus in a lubricant puddle.'"

Ironhide stopped, stunned. "He didn't."

Optimus Prime crashed into him---"Ouch. Ironhide?" Ironhide made his legs start moving again.

"He did," confirmed the Infantry Commander.

Ironhide couldn't believe he'd missed---wait. "Please tell me there's security footage."

"There is. And guess who has a copy. Actually, guess who has several copies."

"I owe you a vorn's worth of high-grade, Firestrike, you're the best!"

* * *

Barricade followed Prowl, trembling, shivering, thoroughly aroused, as the other mech walked sedately through the halls of Iacon's capitol, as frustratingly calm as an inert lump of metal. Barricade wondered whether his brother's stoicism was the result of incredible self-control (which Prowl admittedly had in spades) or through immunity to what they'd been hearing. Barricade had learned from experience that some things just didn't appear to affect his brother; he was often as emotionless and logical in his free time as his chosen career demanded professionally. On the other hand, Prowl was naturally reticent and reserved---and besides, Barricade couldn't conceive of anyone (Bonecrusher didn't count, he spent so much energy hating everything that he wouldn't know arousal if it walked up and introduced itself) being completely immune to _tha_t.

The Lord High Protector.

Megatron.

Was interfacing with someone.

In. His. Office.

The combination of several of Barricade's favorite fantasies---Megatron, superior officer, public place, seat of power, probably a few others he wasn't thinking of---had his energon turning to liquid fire in his circulatory lines and his sensors tuned to every tiny fluctuation in airflow over his body, and there was nothing he wanted more---besides to inexplicably switch places with the Lord High Protector's partner---than to press Prowl into the nearest wall and interface with him several times. Prowl, being his sibling, was closer to him than anyone and naturally the most compatible interfacing partner he'd have until he took a bondmate, and was quite delightful at helping Barricade play out his fantasies. Unfortunately, Prowl was quite shy and reserved about all things pleasurable, defensive of his dignified reputation, and though he would happily agree to multiple interfaces or even pretending to be Megatron in the privacy of their own quarters, he had never once allowed anyone to be intimate with him out in public.

Well, there was a first time for everything.

He moved closer to Prowl and passed both clawed hands lightly over his brother's chassis, only to curse his brother's shyness to the stars above as Prowl deftly evaded most of the caress.

"Barricade!"

Barricade deliberately did not stifle the disappointed whine that was his first reaction, and Prowl looked over with the _slightest_ hint of consideration amidst a great deal of annoyance and edginess. From long experience, however, his brother knew which emotion outweighed which, and he blew air out of his intakes in a fierce sigh---and then shivered madly as the expelled air ghosted over sensitive wires and plating.

"Please, Prowl?

"Barricade, we've been through this. And this is the _government center_; the Prime and the Lord High Protector work here!" The latter half of Prowl's argument had the opposite effect of what he'd intended, and Barricade turned and cuffed his sibling on the side of the head, hard enough to knock him against the wall.

"What was that for?" his brother deadpanned, truly confused. Prowl had been expecting more sneaky caresses; the sudden violence did not resemble his brother's seduction style in the slightest.

"What was that for?!" Barricade repeated, incredulous. "You won't overload me, but you'll tease me with the prospect of Megatron walking in on us?!"

Oh.

Prowl considered Barricade anew, taking in the high rev of his engine, the trembling of his graceful, powerful frame, the heat radiating off of him. He _wanted_ to get caught, Prowl realized---or rather, he would like that; it didn't _matter_ to him the way it did to Prowl. Barricade wasn't embarrassed at interfacing anywhere, and given the number of times he'd requested Prowl pretend to be Megatron, discovery by the Lord High Protector would probably be, for Barricade, a dream come true.

Prowl sighed, processor racing. He _really_ didn't want to risk someone seeing them. He could understand his brother's uncaring attitude, and even envy it at times, but he couldn't emulate it. Maybe in the academy or the residence halls he could manage it . . . at night when the hallways were likely to be deserted, maybe . . . but this was the government center; they could be interrupted by the Prime, and even the thought of that was enough to send Prowl's processor into panic mode.

He'd had the honor of meeting Optimus Prime twice, both regarding some scholastic merit he'd attained, and come away from both meetings full of emotions and feelings he didn't recognize or know what to do with. The chief leader of Cybertron was amazing, impressive in every possible way and yet also accessible, friendly, engaging. Comforting. Prowl was in awe of him, and the prospect of Optimus Prime discovering Prowl interfacing in one of the halls of _his_ government center struck up such a flurry of emotions in the young tactician-in-training that he simply shied away from them, forcing his mind back to Barricade, who was watching him with optics that simply _burned_ with the purest lust Prowl had seen from his brother since the elaborate seduction game Prowl had set up for him to celebrate the completion of their first vorn of life.

He loved Barricade, he really did. And when Barricade looked at him like that . . . _Optimus_, his security subroutines reminded him . . .

And like a bolt of lightning from the occasional electric storms that swept Cybertron's upper stratosphere, the answer came to him. "Barricade," he said, watching with gratification as the crimson optics lit up even further, "if you find us a closet or a spare office or something, I'll make it up to you and then some."

Barricade was off down the hall like a shot half an astrosecond later. Prowl smiled, and followed.

* * *

Jazz was bored.

This was, as any senior administrator, faculty member, or security officer could affirm to, a Bad Thing. It led, invariably, to meyhem on an astounding scale, very little of which could be actually traced back to Jazz. It only made matters worse that the exceedingly-bright young mech had not yet discovered his true calling. Most mechs as far into their Academy studies as Jazz was had long since realized that they were warriors, scientists, artists, tacticians, politicians, or whatever else they might be. Jazz, on the other hand, was still blazing through classes without really immersing himself in anything, and aside from his fondness for music (_listening_ to it, rather than composing it), he devoted himself one hundred percent only in his pranks, hacks, and practical jokes. True, they were stunningly well-done (to say nothing of devastatingly effective), but there was no practical application for such things, and nothing Jazz had ever studied came close to catching his attention in any comparable way.

Right now, the small silver mech was lounging flat on his chest and abdominal plates on the wide ledge of the massive fountain which dominated the landscape outside Cybertron's government center. He was supposed to be in a Theoretical Physics lecture, but he'd been suspended for three meetings of the class due to a hacked lecture display showing a holomanip animation of the teaching assistant interfacing with a commemorative statue of one of Cybertron's first great physicists. Today was the fourth meeting of the class, but Jazz could always say he'd gotten the dates mixed up and thought that it was the third. Meanwhile, however, his impromptu trip to the government center had yet to yield much entertainment.

Time to fix that . . .

* * *

Barricade finally spotted a door. "In there!" he hissed at Prowl.

The other mech scrambled for the door release only to jerk back and snap, "It's restricted!"

"Hack the lock!" came the response. Prowl looked annoyed.

"What?! I'm not going to break into a restricted storeroom in the government center! Are you glitched?!"

"Relax, brother! We're not using it for anything illegal, just for interfacing in private! And they'll never know we're in here! We'll be out in just a few breems!"

Prowl's response, whatever it was, never made it past his vocalizer, as Barricade's claws caressed his sides, working cleverly beneath his armor plating to brush softly against hidden wires. Prowl trembled, fingertips scraping across the access panel and the door. Barricade grinned. Light touches drove the reserved smaller mech utterly wild. He lowered his voice to a purr and spoke right next to Prowl's audio, "Unless you'd rather do it out here in the open?"

Prowl snarled---softly---and pressed an uplink port to the access panel. The door obligingly opened within astroseconds, and Barricade propelled both of them into the room. Prowl quickly saw to it that the door was secured while Barricade prepared to pounce, and the instant the locks clicked back into place he threw Prowl up against a shelf carrying enough firepower to scatter Bonecrusher all over the city, and with that happy thought, Barricade captured Prowl's head in both hands, descended on his perfect, stoic lips, and kissed him senseless.

**A/N:** Yes, the firepower in the closet is significant. Remember what Optimus and Ironhide are after?

More is to come; reviews are much loved and appreciated.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **_I apologize for the MASSIVE delay-my motivation just ran through a massive dry spell and I hardly got anything written for more than a year; I've now hopefully recovered and there's at least a few chapters of this ready to go._

_Happy reading._

* * *

Bonecrusher was having the time of his life.

Around him, the contents of Ironhide's office rested in pieces; things were sparking, other things were charred, most of it was crushed beyond recognition. Through a haze of acrid smoke the combiner mech peered down at his latest project, which was hooking up several power lines to one of Ironhide's datapads. He was going to find out what would happen to the pad (not to mention its almost-at-capacity collection of important weapons-performance data) when he ran the room's entire power supply through it.

For _science_.

* * *

Prowl moaned softly into Barricade's mouth, and Barricade, satisfied that he'd gotten Prowl worked up to a level comparable with his own arousal, broke the kiss and fixed his brother with a longing gaze. "Be Megatron for me?"

Prowl smiled slightly at his brother's request, unsurprised, and was about to oblige when his gaze fell on the fusion cannon resting by the door, and suddenly limp fingers fell from Barricade's chassis.

"Oh Primus." Prowl's voice was breathless, not with desire this time but with icy, paralyzing fear. "Barricade, this is a _weapons locker_! We-I hacked into a _weapons locker_ in the _government center_, oh, Primus, I can't believe . . ."

_Slag_. Would nothing just slagging _go right_ today?

"Prowl!" Barricade clutched his brother protectively to him with one arm and traced calming circles on a shaking doorwing with the other. "_Relax_. Nobody's going to catch us. Nobody'll know. Come on, Prowl, we just went in here to interface, we had no idea where we were, we just got lost, OK?"

"Got lost through a locked door?" Prowl managed weakly, panic evident in his voice.

"We weren't thinking straight, Prowl. You wanted privacy, that's common enough, but we were both charged and not thinking and we just hacked the nearest lock. It's _fine_, I'll bet even Prime's done something like it when he was in the Academy! Just relax, Prowl! We'll overload once, and then we can get out of here!" He saw Prowl's face change as his brother considered just running out the door, and not wanting to lose the privacy himself now for the role-playing's sake, dipped claws beneath Prowl's chestplate and sleekly offered "I'll be Optimus, how's that?"

Prowl took the bait, shivering. Barricade felt his acquiescence more than heard it, and shifted his body posture to resemble that of the Prime. "Come here, now," he coaxed, tone and inflection a passable imitation of Optimus, and Prowl came, weaponry and consequences forgotten, and Barricade returned to kissing him senseless, a bit more thoroughly this time.

* * *

Iacon's primary security office was a spacious affair, brightly lit and dominated by a dozen or so desks. The nearest one was occupied by a young cadet whom Ironhide introduced as Red Alert, who looked quite nervous at meeting the Prime and even more nervous when Ironhide explained the reason for being there, going quickly into a frantic spiel about the security risks of compromising the shielding on Megatron's door. Optimus was searching for a tolerably polite way of telling him to shut up when a lilting voice interrupted, calmly silencing Red Alert in exactly the manner he'd been looking for. Prime looked up to meet the cool blue optics of Iacon City's Chief of Security.

Elita-One smiled, and as usual, Optimus felt tensions and deadlines simply melt away.

"What can I do for you, Optimus?" she asked, all business for the moment.

Beside him, Ironhide shook with silent laughter. Returning his gaze to the Chief of Security, Optimus braced himself and got it over with. "I need Megatron for something important and time-sensitive and he's gone and shut out the override codes on his door. We need-"

"He _what_?" The quiet strength in Elita's voice sent charges of electricity dancing through Prime's circuits as her tone promised fiery vengeance on the Lord High Protector for his carelessness. Beside them, Ironhide shook harder and Optimus felt like joining him. Elita-One was Iacon City's chief of security and as such had authority that trumped Megatron's and even his own in certain select ways. Optimus had crossed her on rare occasion and been soundly punished for it, but Megatron never had, and the idea of the Lord High Protector spending a couple cycles in a cell improved Prime's morning more than he'd thought possible.

"I'm locked out," he repeated. "We came to get a gun capable of burning through the shielding on his door."

Elita grinned at that, a look that people of a different species would millions of years in the future describe as _bloodthirsty_; Optimus just called it _vicious_ and _delighted_. Ironhide didn't call it anything, but rather lost control and let out a few undignified giggles.

The cadet, Red Alert, interrupted them. "All class-gamma and above weapons are in weapons lockers at the moment, sirs. The one we usually keep here is in maintenance. We should by rights have them here, although technically it's more secure to keep them in weapons lockers . . ." he trailed off, obviously forcing himself to stop babbling at the Prime. "Nearest is up a floor and to the left."

Elita-One nodded and gestured to him to sit back down. Fixing Optimus and then Ironhide with a mischievous smile, she said "I'll lead the way; I'm not missing this," and swept coolly from the room. Optimus followed, optics focused more on her aft than on anything else, which resulted in a collision with the doorframe on the way out. Ironhide emitted a few more giggles and then followed the other two, circuits tingling with anticipation at the prospect of firing one of the big guns.

* * *

Bonecrusher _purred_ as the datapad fused, melted, and finally exploded with a resounding bang. He cut the power, trembling softly as his spark reacted to the beautiful destruction in a way he was not quite familiar with.

All that energy . . .

His spark twisted yearningly in his chest as he replayed it in his mind, and without quite realizing it he brought one hand up to stroke the edge of his spark chamber. The shock of pleasure brought him out of his reverie and he stared down at his hand, half-buried in his chest, with something like awe.

He was about to do it again when he noticed the power cables, and thoughts of wonderful, searing, beautiful current put aside anything he might want to do with his hands. He selected one of the cables at random and brought it up to touch his spark. Trembled at the proximity of the current and the thought of what it would feel like burning through the suddenly trembling, yearning ember in his chest.

He saw the other two cables lying on the desk and an idea occurred to him. He was no mere datapad, to be burned out or fused . . . well, wiring would fuse. But if he just ran it only through his spark . . .

He smiled, blissful, for once in his life not hating anything because nothing existed besides him and these three power cables; he carefully clamped them to his spark chamber with fingers that shook almost too hard, then ran a diagnostic on the fuses between his spark and the wiring that connected to it. He was happy in a way he'd never been at the prospect of feeling all the power he'd inflicted upon the datapad, but the fusing and exploding parts he could do without.

* * *

Half a breem later, Elita, Optimus, and Ironhide paused outside the door of the weapons locker in question; Elita moved one graceful clawed hand toward the access panel only to stop and bend closer to study it.

"This has been hacked," she said in an oddly flat voice. Optimus turned to look at her questioningly; she tipped her head to one side and regarded the door contemplatively, the hint of a smile slowly becoming evident.

Optimus heard a slight hum and her blue optics paled for a second; ahh, she was scanning the interior. "Two mechs, small, over towards the far wall. Interfacing." She sounded amused, and Optimus smiled. He knew full well that nothing made the security director happier than catching and punishing someone for a security violation. He was surprised, however, when she reached for the panel again.

"We're not going to wait for them to come out?" he asked, looking forward to the look on these mechs' faces when they opened the door to find the Prime, the Chief of Security, and the Chief Military Equipment Advisor waiting outside for them. Elita grinned, vicious.

"No."

* * *

Prowl was having the time of his life. Weapons locker and potential consequences forgotten, he was slowly descending into a circuit-melting haze of bliss. Barricade's clawed hands could not pass well for those of Optimus Prime, but Prowl was beyond caring; he sent his own fingers across Barricade's chassis, pausing to dip beneath plating and rub at wires; when Barricade groaned deeply he sounded like Prowl imagined Optimus would. Pushing the other mech towards the overload he knew Barricade was on the brink of, he never head the door sliding open, being instead utterly focused on coherently gasping out a single word.

"Optimus . . ."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:**_ The timing is a bit back-and-forth in this one, as a few things are happening simultaneously. I've tried to make it as clear as possible, but there are a couple points where I can't keep everything in time, here and in the next chapter. The Bonecrusher scene and the Jazz one following it start at the same time; the weapons locker scenes actually precede it a bit, as will be made clear next chapter. I apologize for any confusion. Happy reading._

Optimus moved into the darkened weapons storeroom with a speed that belied his size; as his optics adjusted to the darkness he saw one mech throw his head back, optics offline in preparation for overload; Elita moved quickly towards this one and Optimus, understanding her intention, targeted the other, who was dipping blunt fingers under armor while writhing in the clawed grasp of his partner.

He had just barely gotten close enough to reach out and touch the mech when he recognized the body and paint job as that of someone he'd met before; the realization slowed him down, and as Elita was grasping the other one, Optimus stopped, hands hovering just off the heated, trembling frame, as the mech threw his head back, optics unlit, and whispered, "Optimus."

_Prowl_, Prime's mind supplied at the same time; conscious recognition followed-a promising student, a wonderful conversationalist, someone Optimus quite liked.

Obviously the feeling was rather mutual.

A loud cry from the mech in Elita's arms brought him back to reality and Optimus seized Prowl, expertly pinning both his arms behind his back and wrapping one hand about both forearms, then cupping the student's jaw with the other. A light touch to the sensitive throat, meant to communicate to the mech in question that his life was in his captor's hands. Meant to get attention.

Prowl's optics blazed into startled life, stared into Prime's own, widened in shock, and stared, transfixed.

Well, at least some things were working the way they should.

* * *

Barricade didn't hear the door open either. Prowl's hands were scraping across sensitive armor plating and caressing the wiring underneath it and Barricade's claws were picking up the pleasured trembling of his lover, and his circuits were charging, getting closer and closer to a blissful overload, and suddenly strong hands were gripping him from behind, pulling him away from Prowl, digging roughly into his armor; out of sheer reflex he struggled, hard; one of the hands lost its grip on him and then caught it again, this time pressing into his chest with long, slender, clawed fingers.

One didn't spend endless breems staring at such fingers on images of Cybertron's Lord High Protector without contemplating (a lot) what they felt like. Barricade had the vivid imagination one would expect from a mech who wanted more sex than he got, and these strong claw-tipped hands that now gripped him felt exactly like he'd thought they'd feel. Energy surged through him like a star going nova and the exquisite grip on his half-exposed spark chamber combined with the processor-blowing concept of Megatron actually interrupting in reality as he'd dreamed about earlier, not to mention iMegatron's hands on him/i, sent him straight into overload with an audial-shattering roar.

* * *

Prowl froze.

He didn't know what else to do, couldn't think for anything, couldn't _move_, even; speechless with a combination of horror, humiliation, and astonishingly ardent, yearning lust, he hung helpless in the arms of Optimus Prime, trapped as much by his idol's penetrating blue gaze as by the hands that gripped his upper arms. His doorwings, the only part of him with any mobility, trembled with mortification against Prime's hips, which in turn made Prowl even more embarrassed, but he couldn't stop them any more than he could do anything else. His processor, overwhelmed with emotion, was threatening to shut down and take him offline and Primus, did he want it to do so, but his systems wouldn't let him go offline with his energy at this level; they would force him to stay conscious until he overloaded. And since the floor was not going to open up and consume him, there was nothing for it but to continue staring into Prime's eyes, try to form words, and accept the humiliation of his situation. He deserved it, anyway. His arousal level flared at this concept, surprising him, and he was unable to prevent his vocalizer from emitting a single, lustful, pleading moan.

_Primus . . ._

_

* * *

_

The security subroutines of the government center's computer system were shockingly easy to overcome. Jazz got in by accessing a low-security area: the programming that managed the fountain next to him, directing the water in its intricately choreographed flow and monitoring the water's chemistry to keep the pipes clean. From there he moved laterally to another maintenance subroutine, and then another, and from there to the electrical grid, then the security programs, and finally into the main command programming. The higher-level programs were defended heavily against attacks from outside, but switching from program to program within the system Jazz bypassed these, the computer accepting his presence as authorized. He imagined that given time, he could get through most of them, but he was looking to not get caught. Besides, the laws whose spirit he was violating utterly were more concerned with breaking through security protocols; it wasn't considered the hacker's fault if the program let him in. Which meant all that Jazz could get in trouble for, from a security standpoint, was bypassing an extremely minor firewall to get at the fountain.

Speaking of the fountain . . . if that was what they'd get him for, he might as well get his money's worth, so to speak . . .

Returning to the programming that ran the fountain, he accessed the fluid-composition subroutines and injected a sizeable amount of cleaning fluid into the water. Then he accessed the temperature controls and activated a single heating element under the big central fountainhead, and turned it all the way up.

It was the custom to create artistic performances using the fountain on certain holidays: new flow choreography was introduced, chemicals and pigments were added to the water to change its color, consistency and other properties, and sometimes the temperature was changed to create slush, ice crystals, or steam, or to activate some heat-sensitive chemical. The cleaning fluid that Jazz had introduced very definitely qualified as heat-sensitive; it took a little longer for the heat to kick in enough to activate it, but eventually it did, and as the water flowing from all the various smaller fountainheads took on a decidedly bubbly quality and the various passersby started to take notice, the central fountainhead suddenly went off like a supernova, sending a truly astounding amount of bubbles skyrocketing upwards and outwards.

It was really quite the eruption, and Jazz grinned with sheer glee, joining some fifty or so mechs in the general vicinity in staring at the spectacle. Then the effects of gravity decided to make themselves apparent.

It was a big fountain. The spray of bubbles managed to cover the entire courtyard, coating all the facing windows of the government center and burying the assembled mechs almost to Jazz's shoulder level if he were standing up; as he was lying down on the fountain ledge he was completely covered.

Perfect.

Ignoring the various expressions of laughter and annoyance from everyone else, Jazz returned to the highest level he'd accessed, looking for something else to do.

* * *

Optimus Prime looked down at Prowl, taking in the helpless embarrassment in the other's optics and understanding the situation. The younger mech was utterly mortified, probably for a multitude of reasons, from having been caught breaking into a restricted storeroom, to having been caught interfacing-which he obviously didn't want to be caught doing if he'd risked hacking a weapons locker for privacy-to having just whispered Optimus's name in the heat of passion _with Optimus in hearing range_, and meanwhile, unlike his companion, had not overloaded, and had the frustrating torment of unsatisfied desire to deal with besides.

Optimus had no legal obligation to let him reach overload. It was a loophole in the laws limiting inflicted torment on prisoners; physical punishment or interrogation required either approval by the courts or agreement by the prisoner to penance in that form. But restraining a suspect was perfectly acceptable, even if it prevented them from overloading when they were _thisclose_ to doing so-and that allowance would often lead to a quick confession when the prospect of letting them free to overload themselves was offered in exchange.

Such a confession would have to come from Prowl, as from the looks of things his companion had not only overloaded but offlined.

But oh, Optimus wanted to let go of him, to free him from everything that was tormenting him at this point-no, cancel that. He didn't want to let go; he wanted to overload Prowl himself, and he wanted to comfort him, to reassure him that everything was fine, that nothing here would be held against him except a short stay in a prison cell that need not show up on his record.

But that would have to wait.

"Prowl," he said softly.

No answer; the smaller mech's lips parted; he tried to say something, but no words came out. Optimus could hear his processor clicking away madly in something resembling panic; obviously another tactic was in order.

"Prowl," he said again, a slightly harder quality to his voice, a command tone. "I want you to tell me why you came in here."

Another pause; the character of Prowl's panicked gaze changed slightly. He understood what Optimus was saying, at least.

"_NOW._" A growl, and the younger 'bot shivered against him, doorwings banging slightly against Prime's hips. Fingers made the slightest of movements against Prowl's throat, and Prowl finally managed to get words out.

"I'm sorry." The words came out as a hopeless plea, and Optimus determined that the instant business was cleared up he was taking the rest of the day off to reassure Prowl that everything was going to be fine. Optimus had never had someone he was fond of afraid of him before, and decided he really didn't like it one bit . . . although the concept of comforting him and of chasing the fear away was a decidedly pleasant one.

No more was forthcoming at the moment, and Optimus decided to reassure him. "Yes," he said. "It's all right, Prowl, relax. Just tell me what you're doing in here, and I'll make everything all right."

Prowl whimpered at that, optics dimming for a second and then brightening. Optimus smiled, trying to be reassuring. Squeezed Prowl's wrists slightly, moved fingers against his throat and jaw again in something resembling a soothing caress.

Voice catching, Prowl said, "Barricade and I-ummm. Heard someone else interfacing . . . kinda loudly . . . we wanted to try it too, but I don't . . ."

"You didn't want to interface in public, correct?" Optimus prompted gently.

Prowl nodded, a little bit calmer now. "This was the first door we came to, and I was kind of . . . we just planned to be in and out quick, so I just hacked the lock. I thought it was just a storage closet, I didn't see the weapons until later, Sir, I didn't mean to break into a weapons storeroom, all we had in mind was to interface and then get out, that's _all_, I swear by Primus . . ." He trailed off, more frightened now that he'd been reminded of the illegal part of his activities, and his doorwings fluttered harder against Prime. Optimus reacted to that without thinking, pulling Prowl back into greater contact with him; Prowl whined, and Prime was reminded that the smaller mech was still on the verge of overload. Getting an idea, Prime smiled.

"All right, Prowl," he said, letting a bit of a purr creep into his voice, "You've been very cooperative for me, and I could let you go so you can overload yourself, but I seem to recall hearing you say my name . . ." Prowl winced and was halfway through the word "sorry" again when Prime pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. "Don't be sorry; I'm pleased." The doorwings fluttering against his hips actually stilled at that, and Optimus smiled, half reassuring and half the look of a mech who's just gotten something he wants. "Perhaps you'd like me to be the one to give you your overload?" he continued hopefully.

Prowl stared up at him, happy and disbelieving, and then, with hope in his voice that matched Prime's, said, "Please."

His voice was half desire and half helpless plea, and Optimus decided he _loved_ that tone of voice, and would do his best to ensure that he heard it often. Smiling even more, he moved his hand down from Prowl's throat to caress his chest armor, and was surprised to find the chestplates open and Prowl's spark chamber exposed-apparently his sudden arrival had thrown the younger mech off to such an extent that he'd forgotten it was open. More pleased by this than he'd admit even to himself, he stroked Prowl's spark itself, dipping fingers directly into the glowing blue light, and Prowl convulsed in his arms and _screamed_.

Optimus engaged his battle mask, deciding it in the best interest of his reputation for Elita and Ironhide not to see the rather ridiculously happy grin that was threatening to take over his face.

* * *

Bonecrusher's fingers trembled as he clipped the third power cable to his spark chamber. Then, annoyed, unclipped two of them to move over to the far wall and reroute the main power controls to the desk, where he could access them while tethered by three power cables. Reattaching them, he moved his fingers to the control panel, sat down on top of Ironhide's desk, lay back, and flipped the switch.

There was a bare instant of the most searing, spectacular pleasure Bonecrusher had ever experienced as he overloaded instantly, and then sheer, utter nothingness as he offlined just as fast.

The electricity continued flowing unhindered through his spark, building up a charge and then cascading into overload time after time as if on repeat.

* * *

Prowl came online in a daze, happier than he could ever remember being.

Not entirely certain why, he accessed his memory banks and his optics blazed white-hot as it came back to him; he looked up, not entirely certain the intervention of Optimus Prime hadn't been a vivid dream, and not sure how to react to the possibility that it was true; his gaze met that of Cybertron's leader and his doorwings started trembling again. Not entirely certain how to react to the discomfiting _reality_ of the situation, he settled for emitting a soft squeak.

Optimus chuckled softly, smiling, and moved his hand away from Prowl's throat. Regardless of the half-threat its original placement there had meant to convey, Prowl couldn't quite suppress a second squeak as it was removed, this one sounding faintly disappointed, but before he could become embarrassed at that, Prime's hand pressed against one of his doorwings, stroking it lightly. Reassuring. "You're OK."

Prowl smiled.

* * *

Jazz was looking through the security camera feeds when he came across Ironhide's office.

He recognized it from having been there for a lecture or three; that was the _only_ reason he recognized it, as it was spectacularly unrecognizable. _Everything_ was either crushed or in pieces, _something_ was smoldering, and there was a hulking, ugly-as-slag mech settling himself on Ironhide's desk with three power cables hooked up to his spark.

Jazz stared for half a second and then laughed himself senseless; he'd tried it once himself with just _one_ power line and knew full well how dumb it was. Then his optics blazed as an idea came to him, and as the mech reached for the switch Jazz scrambled for the power-supply subroutines. They came up on his internal viewscreen just in time for the power spike in Ironhide's office to register, and he cut power to the rest of the building at the same instant, leaving it on in that single office. After all, to interfere with another mech's overload would be cruel . . . especially since said mech would shortly be receiving the full blame for the power outage Jazz had created.

It wasn't really that nasty. The mech wouldn't be in any condition to do anything but lie there for a half-dozen solar cycles, at least; it wouldn't make that much difference if he spent them in a med bay or a cell.

With a final grin at the camera image of the writhing mech on the table, Jazz switched feeds, stopping as he discovered a hallway camera displaying Optimus Prime leading Ironhide and three others out of a storage closet, Ironhide carrying a fusion cannon in his arms. Now _this_ looked like it might be promising . . . oh hey, such a sweet-looking mech next to Optimus with the doorwings . . . he wondered who that was.

Pushing a ticklish cluster of bubbles away from his aft, Jazz settled down to watch.


	6. Chapter 6

Title: The Morning Report.

Author: Kyra Neko-Rei

Chapter Summary: In which that which I've been teasing you all with finally happens. ^_^

* * *

Barricade looked up toward his captor's face the instant he came out of recharge, and received the surprise of his life when his gaze met blue optics.

"Bwuh? You're not Megatron . . ." he blurted intelligently.

Someone was having a giggle fit off to the side; Barricade turned to glare at whomever-it-was, noting in passing that Prowl was collapsed against Optimus Prime, blissful grin on his face and Prime's hand still in his chest. So Prime had entered the mix and given Prowl what he most wanted, apparently. That was nice.

Barricade was used to oddities of this sort. Always one to jump into a berth (or storage closet, or office, or anything else for that matter) with practically anyone on the slightest of pretexts, he'd come online to find himself in everything from hovels to penthouses after paying no attention to where he was going beyond "home with (insert name here);" he'd brought his share of lovers home with him as well before Prowl put a stop to that (apparently being woken up from recharge by the sound of Barricade being pounded lovingly through the furniture by a violence-happy gestalt leader named Motormaster did not sit well with Prowl the night before a big exam, and Barricade was not much more fond of Prowl's responding threat to call security every time he found an unknown mech in his quarters, as security was not consistently amenable to invitations to put the guns away and join the party); he'd come out of overload haze on mass-transit lines long past his stop, in alleyways and med bays and the occasional prison cell, finding himself intimately entangled with stim-drug addicts, Council members and everything in between, overcharged, underenergized and with all manner of claw marks, electro-whip wounds, and practically everything else carved into his armor. He usually took the not-quite-expected with composed equanimity.

But frag it, he'd been _sure_ that that had been Megatron.

Granted, his optics had been offline . . .

His glare met the hulking form of Ironhide, who was shaking with laughter so hard Barricade thought he might fall over. Letting a low growl exit his vocalizer, Barricade's attention was jerked back to the being who held him, as a hand closed smoothly around his throat.

Oh, right, they'd hacked their way into a weapons locker. That was illegal.

Damn.

The claws, Barricade noted on further reflection, were too small to belong to Megatron. Their owner was slightly taller than he was, maybe a little shorter than Ironhide, and much more slender. He couldn't see her coloring in the darkness, but she was definitely not Megatron . . . too small, too graceful, and though her face was beautiful, it was of a different order to that of the Lord High Commander.

She was speaking, amusement rich in her tone. "Sorry to disappoint, but no, I'm not. Last I checked."

Barricade decided he liked her.

"But you have other problems. You've illegally gained access to a restricted area. State why."

"We," he gesture to Prowl with his free hand, "wanted to interface, and he doesn't like to do it in public. We just went for the first door we could find. It was locked, yeah, sorry about that, but we didn't want to keep looking for an unlocked one. We just hacked it and went in, really didn't care what was inside. We had no intention of stealing or using anything that's been locked away, we just wanted a quiet place to interface."

Contriteness, whether genuine or assumed, was generally the safest option in dealing with unfamiliar authority figures. That was the beauty of Cybertron's justice system with regards to minor crimes: accept responsibility, apologize, make reparations as necessary, and you were home free after just a token amount of prison time or physical punishment. Prisoner's choice. Standing at ease now in his captor's grasp, Barricade looked up at her calmly.

* * *

Elita-One had no idea whether the mech in her hands was truly contrite or acting. It didn't matter, though; she'd look through his record before deciding what course of action to take. Optimus obviously knew the other mech; that might count for something, or it might not. Certainly not everyone who interfaced together knew each other that well; Elita had coworkers who could name a thousand Cybertronians' sexual preferences, describe their bodies in intimate detail and where their most sensitive wires were and what they sounded like when overload hit them, and be unable to recall what a one of them did for a living. Then again, there were bondmates and siblings and people who'd been lovers for a small eternity . . . and these two could be any of those.

"State your name," she formally demanded of the gleaming black mech in her arms.

"Barricade," was the answer. "My brother over there is Prowl."

Siblings, then. Which meant if Prime vouched for Prowl's character, Prowl could vouch for Barricade's. There was still the records and psych profiles to look through, but it sounded like this case would be exactly what it appeared to be: a minor infraction for convenience's sake, easily punished and quickly forgiven.

So back to the more pressing order of business, and the all-too-pleasing prospect of punishing Megatron for a certain override-code infraction. "Ironhide, there's a fusion cannon by the door there. That should work."

Optimus Prime interrupted her with a minor logistical complication. "Elita. I take it these two are under arrest?"

"Of course. Shouldn't be anything major, if you'll vouch for that one's character;" she nodded toward Prowl, who was just stirring to consciousness with a pleased purr.

Optimus nodded, but continued, "I don't have time to waste taking them down to the brig; I _need_ to talk to Megatron about these trade agreements. And I suppose neither of you want to miss this, either."

Elita grimaced; Ironhide shook his head and growled, "Pit, no."

The Chief of Security shrugged, and addressed the two smallest mechs. "All right, you two are coming with us to the Lord High Protector's office while we deal with something important. Once we're done, you will be taken to the security office and detained while we decide what to do with you. You will _behave yourselves_." This last she said in a voice of steel, and Barricade shivered slightly against her.

She let go of his throat and let her hand trail across his shoulder in an almost-caress. Wouldn't do to be too brusque with him; she _had_ overloaded him, even if it was accidental. In all probability she would again, more intentionally. Physical pleasure was simply a true _good_ thing, a gift that ran through the very essence of Cybertronian society, reassuring, affirming, creating bonds of happiness and fulfillment. To some extent it permeated every aspect of their lives, and it was very helpful to follow punishment with it. No hard feelings, no harm done. Reassurance and forgiveness and a sense of trust and friendship, and it was good for mechs with mild criminal tendencies to form positive associations with law enforcement.

It was the greatest gift of Primus, and though she wasn't particularly all that religious, she never failed to be made joyful by contemplating all the good that was done with it.

In the meantime, however, they had a door to blast and a Lord High Protector to drag down to a cell along with these two. Barricade was not alone in lusting after the planet's beautiful second ruler; he was wonderful and terrible, deadly and protective; he was Cybertron's greatest defender, safeguarding every last Cybertronian as his sacred duty, and he was its greatest warrior, a merciless, destructive force against anything he deemed a threat to his people.

The prospect of going up against him, with authority to do so for his locking out the override codes, was making her circuits sing. She suspected Barricade, walking beside her with his shoulder armor hard and still hot under her companionable hand, was in a similar state. He was smiling, anyway.

Ironhide opened the door to the hallway, only to stop short in surprise as the lights went out.

"Huh. Weird."

There were more pressing matters incumbent upon them than investigating a power outage, however. They continued.

* * *

A small crowd had gathered in the antechamber to Megatron's office. A dozen mechs, from command staff to unranked passerby, stood milling about, and at the sight of the Prime and his entourage they backed away towards the walls.

Elita entered her override code, satisfying herself that it didn't work. Optimus then entered his, with the same results. Then Ironhide stepped up; the fusion cannon charged, and a brilliant white light flashed out of it, leaving as it faded a great, gaping hole in the door. Elita was through it in a flash, followed by Optimus, Ironhide and the younger set of brothers-then, as Elita's scream of delighted laughter floated into the anteroom, their audience came in to see what was so funny.

The massive desk at the back of the office was tipped over onto its side and mostly smashed. Underneath it and the array of datadisks and files it once held, a pair of red and white wings could be seen sticking out, the mech attached to them lying facedown under the desk. Underneath this, silver form motionless, was Megatron, head arched back with a cracked datapad resting against it, and the ecstasy of overload written clear on his face.

* * *

Watching it all through the security cameras, Jazz threw back his head and burst out laughing.


End file.
